The Fox at Dawn

            It was Dad’s day, a day ordered by the court that didn’t always materialize, the Saturday we spent with Dad. It was supposed to be fun. He did things with us that he thought we’d find fun. Like visiting Fort Harrod, imagining the brave Settlers fighting off the murderous Indians. Imagining the brave Native Americans fighting off the invading Plunderers. He’d encouraged us to pick out something in the gift shop at the end, a souvenir to remember this day, evidence that this day happened. It was an extravagance my mother could never afford. Not anymore. So my brother went home with a rubber tomahawk all the way from China and I got a cornhusk doll dressed in blue gingham. I was ashamed of that doll, of my wanting it when I knew my mother couldn’t have bought it. Something I was given so my dad could feel good and my mom would feel bad. That doll sat on my shelf for years. I couldn’t play with it and I couldn’t throw it away.

            This Saturday we were going to ride motorcycles. My baby sister stayed home or had she even been born yet? Memory is a big ole soup. Some things float to the top, others have to be dug up off the bottom, a lot disintegrates into the broth and flavors everything. I feel this Saturday was before we moved out of the big house when Dad came back and we were all going to have a fresh start in a different house, one not so grand as the one furnished by my grandfather. Dad was in and out for a long time before my sister was born. Losing jobs, wrecking cars, opening a liquor store in the West End to make an easy buck. Lots of schemes, wheeling and dealing I couldn’t have known about. I knew arguing, slamming doors, walking out, dad late, dad not coming home, dad sick in the morning so we’d be sent alone down the block to the tot lot, my little brother and I- age 4 and 6? 5 and 7? Kids, you go play until Daddy gets up.

Dad was into motorcycles. He rode with his friend Donny down at the plant, Donny who was a mechanic for The Outlaws. Motorcycles and gangs were everywhere then. Easy Rider, Evel Knievel, Hell’s Angels. We were taken to all the motorcycle movies at the drive in. One triple feature I remember was Evel Knievel, Hell’s Angels on Wheels and Million Dollar Duck. Something for everyone. Even a sado-masochistic extended trailer for a horror film called The Wizard of Gore that gave me nightmares for years. Seriously, this was family night at the drive-in? Yet, there we were, my brother and I eating popcorn on the roof of the car. 

My mother hated motorcycles. Dad got her a lady’s Honda for a birthday present around then. I found out only recently that he had stolen that bike off a freight train with the help of his best friend, a man we called Uncle George. Mom didn’t want it, she told him to take it back. Dad was furious, yelling about trying to do something nice for her, something they could do together. I remember Dad rolling it back down the sidewalk to the alley. I remember him trying to lift it up into a truck and failing over and over until he let it crash on its side while he punched the garage wall and broke his hand.

This Saturday, Dad’s Saturday, we were going to ride motorcycles. I might have been 8. We went to Donny’s house to get the bikes and then to this big green space, maybe it was a large park outside the city. It had wide open fields and some hills with steps to the top. It was supposed to be fun. I knew I was expected to act as if I was having fun. There was the cooler of beer and soft drinks, the ubiquitous cooler. I don’t remember any helmets. Who wants a ride? We were supposed to sit behind our dads and hold on- Donny’s kid behind him on his bike, one of us behind Dad. I held back. I didn’t want to go. My little brother went first. They took off, tore around the fields in the grass. It was loud. It was hot. It was my turn.

 ‘You’re not afraid are you? Your brother loved it’ I knew that being afraid meant something bad to Dad. I would offend him if I was afraid. I let his friend Donny lift me onto the seat behind Dad. Dad told me where to put my feet. Told me to be careful and not let my feet dangle. The tailpipe would burn me badly if my bare leg touched it. I wrapped my arms tight around him, squeezed my eyes shut. He laughed, told me to ease up or I might crack his ribs. All the boys laughed. Embarrassed, I tried to relax my grip. The motorcycle suddenly lurched off, popping a little wheelie. I may have cried out, but nobody heard it. Loud and fast. He tore around the field, around and around, then I heard him say ‘Hold on now-‘ and the motorcycle shook hard up and down. He was riding up the stairs on the hill, like they do in those motorcycle movies. I couldn’t breathe, just held tight, every part of me tight- eyes, arms, legs, chest, heart. We whooshed back down the hillside and came to a stop. The motor cut off. There was something wrong with the bike. I was lifted off the seat, holding my legs far apart from the heat of the tailpipe. Set down on the ground again, I felt weak. I wasn’t sure I could stand long.

“Damnit. The chain’s come off.”

Donny came over with the boys. 

“Here, we have to take the master link off to reset it.” Donny finds the link and takes it off, handing it to my Dad. “Hold this while I rethread it.”

They cracked open more beers before wrestling with the bike. We all gathered around to watch. I tried to catch my breath, hoped no one noticed me. Donny set his beer in the grass, laid down and worked at getting the chain back on. It was getting hot. There was some cursing, some laughing, a lot of grunting. Donny reached out his hand for the master link.

“Okay, I’m ready.”

“Goddammit- where did it go? Dammit. I must have dropped it. Kids, help me look.”

We all started pawing through the grass on our hands and knees, grabbing up handfuls, looking, looking, it had to be found. It became the most important thing in the world to find the master link. It held everything together. Donny began to get angry. Dad became angry. They snapped at each other. I felt my shoulders burning in the sun. My head was beginning to hurt, another migraine on the way. Maybe everything would be alright if I found it. I prayed to be the one who found it. I prayed that I could be the hero who saved the Saturday. Suddenly my dad began to laugh. He opened his left hand- the one holding his beer. There it was, the master link, held in the curl of his pinky and ring finger. 

“I swear I didn’t even feel it” my dad said.

“You son of a bitch” said Donny. 

Then they both laughed, on and on. The master link there in his hand the whole time and he just laughed.